


three words on the tip of my tongue (not to be spoken or sung, or whispered to anyone)

by KaavyaWriting



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Bickering, Bilbo being oblivious, Fluff, M/M, Really ridiculous amounts of bickering, Thorin being a jealous bean, and cuddling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-26
Updated: 2014-03-26
Packaged: 2018-01-17 01:41:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1369255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaavyaWriting/pseuds/KaavyaWriting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somewhere between all the bickering there is cuddling and fluff and perhaps a small degree of smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	three words on the tip of my tongue (not to be spoken or sung, or whispered to anyone)

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt fic for LJ, who requested, "a fic with cuddling while on the quest, snuggling under the stars, ravishing in the river (cuz only Thorin gets to bathe with the future cons—his one and onl—the burglar), getting cozy by the campfire." I ask you, _how could I resist_? Thank you LJ, for giving me the perfect opportunity to write cuddlefic, and I hope you enjoy!
> 
> I don't know, this was supposed to be a drabble/ficlet? I am sorry it's…much longer than that? But on the bright side, more fic? :D One line specifically was borrowed from Tolkien and then rearranged politely as possible for my purposes.
> 
> Beta'ed by the fabulous Lilithiumwords! <3

After the hug on the Carrock their Burglar— _Bilbo_ —fell silent.

Thorin thought it strange, for hadn't Bilbo been pleased up on top of the Carrock not hours ago? He'd looked to Erebor with a quiet, almost surprised awe on his face, as though he'd not expected to ever see the Lonely Mountain. Thorin could sympathize with the notion; he'd not been sure he'd ever see his home again himself after it had been lost to his people—to him—for so many decades. But Bilbo had been happy, optimistic in the aftermath of their narrow escape. He'd smiled at Thorin as though Thorin had offered him a priceless gift, though it'd been _Bilbo_ who'd saved _Thorin_.

It was a smile Thorin hadn't deserved, all things considered. Not after the way he'd treated Bilbo in the long weeks since their quest had begun. Not after the stone giants. Not after his accusations outside the goblin caves. Nor had he handled his apology overly well, if the hurt look in Bilbo's eyes before he'd hugged him had been anything to go by.

It was only when Bilbo was in his arms—solid and real and _safe_ —Thorin thought to add he'd been wrong at all. He was not good with apologies, never cared for them, since actions spoke louder than words.

But Bilbo had seemed pleased with the effort nonetheless, his smile lighting up across his face in a way that seemed to make him glow—

Thorin pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind, burying them firmly under the concerns at hand. For reasons Thorin could not fathom, Bilbo was suddenly miserable. He walked in the center of the straggling line they formed as they wound their way along the steep path down the Carrock, his shoulders tense and head lowered. Bofur was at his back and Kíli and Ori just before him, yet Bilbo did not chatter with them the way he usually did.

Admittedly they were all exhausted, none of them untouched by their ill luck through the mountains. Running through goblin caves for well over a day without rest had that effect. Perhaps that was all it was; they were all exhausted.

But Ori and Kíli whispered quietly together, with Nori occasionally throwing in a comment or a bark of laughter in front of them. Bofur kept trying to lure Bilbo into conversation with some new macabre anecdote every few minutes. And Bilbo just frowned at the ground as though it had personally offended him.

Thorin only knew because he was at the end of their line, not because he was discreetly studying their unexpectedly brave burglar. Though Thorin should not have found that unexpected at all. Bilbo joining their quest had been another strange form of bravery, following a group of unfamiliar dwarves across the world toward known and unknown dangers alike. Then there were the trolls; it'd been foolish of Bilbo, but brave regardless. And now he'd faced off with goblins and the pale orc when all he wished was to return to his Shire.

"If you stare any harder, the burglar just might collapse under the weight of it," Dwalin said behind him. He was the only one taking up the back of the line with Thorin, and Thorin suspected Dwalin had taken it upon himself to ensure Thorin did not stumble and fall off the edge of the narrow path.

Which Thorin did at Dwalin's mocking--stumble, that is, not fall off the path. He might have, but a large hand grabbed his shoulder, hauling him upright until Thorin found his footing once more.

He shot a glare at his friend. "I am not staring."

Dwalin rolled his eyes. "Whatever you want to call it."

"I'm examining," Thorin said, ignoring the voice in the back of his mind telling him that wasn't much better as explanations went. "Something is the matter with him, clearly," he added on, in case Dwalin took to the wrong idea. Thorin wasn't sure what the wrong idea would be himself, but Dwalin would land on some idiotic notion and then stick to it like a burr to the saddle once he did.

"'course." Dwalin snorted. "This is the first death our burglar's ever seen, isn't it? That never sits right."

Thorin blinked. And blinked again. "The trolls," he argued. "He was there for that, if you recall, and nearly died for it. And that _narag_ orc pack before the elves." And then Bilbo had nearly plummeted to his death on the mountains. Thorin did not want to think what he had faced in the goblin caves, when he'd been separated from them. They were all having far too many close calls and ill luck for his comfort, and he set out of his mind Óin's ill omens about a Company of thirteen; they were a company of _fourteen_ , that had been part of Bilbo's purpose. Fourteen and a half if they counted the wizard, which Thorin didn't.

Dwalin was giving him a look that told Thorin he was being purposely obtuse. "He's not killed before, has he? He's never seen battle at all, discounting kerfuffles with trolls. I bet he's never swatted a fly in that gentle Shire o' his."

 _Oh._ Thorin frowned at Bilbo's back, watching his shoulders rise and fall in an aborted hunch when Bofur started in on some inane tale about a barkeep lass in Rohan and the misfortune of having so many horseshoes about a place. Bilbo said something too quietly to be heard that brought Bofur to an immediate silence. Then Bofur picked up his pace and dropped an arm around Bilbo's shoulders, walking amicably at his side.

Thorin ignored the annoyed twinge in his gut and looked back to Dwalin. "Aye, that is likely." He hesitated a second. "I will have a word with him when we set up camp." He remembered well the unpleasant roil of emotions after his first skirmishes as a lad, and Fíli's and Kíli's first battles as well. No one should be left to deal with it alone. Dwalin shrugged one broad shoulder and remained silent.

~*~

"B—Master Baggins." Thorin's voice whipped out across the camp and Bilbo startled from where he'd been setting stones around their freshly dug campfire. When Bilbo looked up toward the voice, he found Thorin's back already stalking into the woods off to the side of their camp.

He glanced questioningly at Bofur, who was helping him with the firepit, and coincidentally Glóin, who was snapping large branches of wood just off to the side. Bofur shrugged, eyebrows jumping up to express his confusion was equal to Bilbo's own.

"You better get on, lad. He's not one for patience," Glóin huffed and snapped another branch across his leg.

Bilbo sighed and rose, supposing 'Master Baggins' was an improvement over 'Burglar' as he brushed the dirt and grass off his trousers. He shouldn't have bothered: lost cause, his trousers were, after all the mucking about in mountains and caves and trees Bilbo had done in the last two days. He gave up and followed Thorin into the cluster of trees.

It took him a few minutes to locate the dwarf king though. Thorin had made it halfway to the little creek a hundred meters away before he'd thought to stop and wait for Bilbo to actually join him. When Bilbo did Thorin just stared. He was frowning at Bilbo, lips turned down beneath his trim beard and eyes dark with some brooding thought.

But it wasn't the typical frown Thorin tended to grace him with, Bilbo was relieved to note. He'd not done something wrong to bring down Thorin's ire so soon after the dwarf finally decided Bilbo was worth the effort of bringing along after all. Not that Thorin was always antagonistic. They'd had a handful of pleasant conversations between the trolls and the stone giants, about history and books and even their homes and families. It was just those conversations were usually bookended by Thorin griping about Bilbo's ineptitude, as if a hobbit should be well versed in traveling and swinging swords and innately understanding secret languages that weren't taught to anybody outside dwarvish clans.

Thorin's frown was… nice somehow. It was a pleasant thought, that Thorin wasn't annoyed (despite looking it), even if Bilbo was steamed with him at the moment.

And Bilbo was steamed, no two ways about it, so he frowned back at the dwarf. "Is there something you needed, Mister Thorin?"

That frown deepened a hair's breadth. Bilbo was too well versed in Thorin's frowns if he could tell that difference, but there it was. "It's Thorin, just Thorin," Thorin said, low voice rumbling with irritation. "As you've called me for weeks now."

"That was quite rude of me," Bilbo said, having the inkling his cheeks were going a bit red despite the fact he was more irritated than embarrassed. His father would be embarrassed, since Bilbo felt he had lost his Baggins manners somewhere between that dreadful, pitiable Gollum creature and the pale orc, but Bilbo certainly wasn't. Still, he added, "After all if you wish to stand on ceremony with this 'Mister Baggins' business, then I'm certainly not going to take such liberties as calling you 'Thorin' without your allowance."

"I just told you to call me Thorin," he snapped.

"No-o." Bilbo's frown deepened in response. "You said I've been calling you Thorin, which, as I pointed out, was terribly rude and I'll not do so again. I do apologize. Was that all?"

"Call me Thorin," Thorin grated out, looking more like the thundercloud Bilbo was familiar with as the seconds passed. He glared down the headspan of height difference between them, as if hoping the look alone would cause Bilbo to … well, Bilbo didn't know what. Agree with Thorin, Bilbo would have supposed, except he didn't see how Thorin had been saying anything to agree or disagree with in the first place.

"Oh," Bilbo said, his own sour expression melting away into confusion. "Alright… if you call me Bilbo."

Thorin actually growled. Bilbo barely kept back his sigh of impatience.

"Bilbo," Thorin said pointedly, dragging out the two syllables with a low, biting edge to his voice. "Why do you constantly—" his mouth clicked shut with a snap. He rubbed his face with both hands, muttering some muffled, incomprehensible complaint into his palms. When he looked to Bilbo again, his frown had returned to the vaguely brooding, thoughtful version. "This is not what I wished to discuss. Would you walk with me."

Bilbo hummed agreeably, trying to push back his own anger at the dwarf and deciding not to point out asking someone to walk with you wasn't a request when you said it in that tone of voice while turning and walking off like you expected the person to follow. He decided it must be a habit of royalty. Or perhaps just of dwarves, who seemed a bossy lot on the best of days. So he trailed after the stalking king.

When they reached the creek—the short trek made in complete silence, hardly a discussion of any sort—Thorin stopped, locked his hands behind his back, and turned to face Bilbo again. His mouth opened, then closed, then Thorin paced four steps along the creek bed, turned, and paced back.

"Something weighs on you," Thorin said, watching Bilbo as though he expected the words to make Bilbo dissolve around the edges, like water spilled over ink.

"Weighs on me," Bilbo said. He felt uncomfortably aware of his barely restrained frustration at the dwarf king, but the others had said nothing, and if they had not, Bilbo wouldn't. It was hardly his place, after all, to judge the actions of a king. But he wondered if Thorin could read it on his face; Bilbo had never been good at hiding his emotions. Face like a page of one of Father's books, his mother had always claimed.

"You've been withdrawn since the Carrock," Thorin said, looking far too knowing for Bilbo's comfort.

Thorin had noticed. How had he noticed? Bilbo hadn't realized Thorin was even aware Bilbo had moods. "Perhaps I'm tired. It's been a long day," Bilbo said, perfectly reasonably. Hopefully Thorin would find it perfectly reasonable too.

He didn't. "It is better to speak of such matters and not let them poison your thoughts, Bilbo."

"Honestly, I'm fine. I think I only need a good night's sleep. I'm sure I'll be right as rain in the morning. If that's all, why don't we…" He trailed off and wiggled his fingers toward camp. Bilbo truly was likely a little over-sensitive from the lack of rest or food. That was all it was. He did need a good night's sleep for a change, even if they weren't likely to have a decent meal tonight considering their rations were down to a pittance after they'd lost so much in the caves. But if Thorin needled him much more, Bilbo was going to lose his temper.

And he really rather wouldn't; he'd only just gotten onto pleasant footing with Thorin. The last thing he wanted to do was land back in Thorin's ill graces. Bilbo knew no matter how upset he was now his own temper would blow over in no more than a few days. He simply wasn't built to bear grudges. Dwarves on the other hand-- _Thorin_ on the other hand… he seemed made to carry ill will to the end of his days, and Bilbo had only barely proved his worth to the king. He wished to become true friends, and if that meant biting his tongue until Thorin trusted him enough to actually listen, Bilbo would muddle through it.

But Thorin's fingers were suddenly curling around Bilbo's wrist when he tried to turn away, holding him in place like the immovable rock Thorin was.

"There is a rush," Thorin said with a tone that conveyed his great determination to see this through, whatever 'this' was; Bilbo was starting to doubt Thorin knew he was mad at him at all, because if he did, he was taking it surprisingly well. If Thorin knew Bilbo was mad, wouldn't he be shouting and sniping by this point? "That comes with the heat of a battle and surviving in the aftermath."

"O-okay," Bilbo said uncertainly, feeling lost.

When Bilbo said nothing further, Thorin's fingers flexed and tightened around Bilbo's wrist just so. He stepped in closer, leaving only a handful of inches between them. It felt as though they were about to share some great secret and Bilbo found himself leaning in towards Thorin's solidity despite himself.

It was not his fault the brooding, rude king was so blasted charismatic. He could hardly help feeling the pull of him, now could he? He was only mortal.

"It is normal, Bilbo, to feel the weight of taking a life, or facing battle at all. All go through it. Should you wish to speak of what has passed, I will understand, as will any in the Company you may wish to confide in." _What?_ Thorin was looking down at him with such earnestness that Bilbo felt _guilt_ swell up in his belly for not understanding what in Eru's name he was going on about.

"I see," he lied, shifting awkwardly in Thorin's grasp. Then he sighed. "Alright, I don't see at all. What in the wide world are you trying to say?"

Thorin's eyes were stormy blue in the deepening dusky light, and his frown had shifted from vaguely displeased to entirely confused. At least his state of mind matched well to Bilbo's. "You killed today," he said as if it had somehow slipped Bilbo's mind. "For me—protecting me, you were forced to kill another living thing when you've likely not swatted a fly before—"

Bilbo choked, he choked on _air_ and his own saliva he was so startled and, well, _offended_. "Never swatted a fly?" he wheezed out between a cough and gasp. "Pardon me? _Pardon me_? Let me just get this straight." And there was the huge upwelling he'd been trying to suppress: pure irritation and outright anger and quite a bit of indignation too. He found himself grabbing Thorin's own wrist with the arm still trapped snuggly in Thorin's grip, holding on tightly as if Thorin might try to escape. The way his eyes had widened, perhaps he would have. "It—first of all, it was an orc. I killed an _orc_ , one that was trying to kill you, as it happens, so you're welcome for that and I don't see why I should feel the least bit sorry." And Bilbo didn't. Maybe that made him a dreadful person, or a dreadful hobbit at least, but the orc had been a thing of evil, trying to do evil, and Bilbo would protect those he called friends as long as there was breath in his body. He'd wished he'd not been forced to find how stupidly courageous he could be when the fires were lit—the literal fires, Yavanna bless him, and did he never want to be in the middle of a burning copse of trees ever again—but he had, and he'd stood his ground and he'd do it again.

"Second of all, did you see my garden? What do you think snails do to gardens? What, do you think I let them go on with their business of eating my cabbages?" he continued on, jabbing the finger of his free hand into Thorin's chest. "No, I kill them, and I'll tell you they're a great deal larger and messier than flies. Not to mention the mice, and the rabbits and squirrels, and the dratted gophers and moles that get into every bit of food buried beneath the dirt." He jabbed his finger into Thorin's chest again, scowling fiercely up at him. "And I used to shoot pebbles at birds when I was a lad, and a fine shot I was too. My father despaired how I would come home with feathers in my hair every other day, pretending I'd grown wings. Hobbits are farmers and planters, you—you, you _dwarf_. We grow things and that involves a great deal of pest control.

"And thirdly!" he said. Now that he was on a roll, he found his mouth was running unstoppably toward the edge of the cliff, and Thorin was just watching him with an astonished expression on his face. "I am upset, you're entirely correct, I'm furious with you for being a thoughtless weed and nearly getting yourself _killed_. As I've not killed a _dwarf_ before, I am sure you don't find it at all surprising that a dead dwarf might shake my delicate sensibilities! Of all the addlepated, horrible, foolish—"

"You're angry with _me_ ," Thorin broke into Bilbo's rant, voice rising and filled with disbelief.

"What did you expect when you run headlong toward impossible odds like it's an acceptable thing to do? You—you tried to kill yourself by… by an orc! You almost died, Thorin, and you shouldn't have! Charging the pale orc like that was madness!"

Thorin's face blanked with anger, fingers clenching impossibly tight around his wrist. Bilbo thought he might bruise from it, but it was such a miniscule matter in the face of the day he'd had. He did not think there was an inch of his back or legs that was not bruised from the fall in the caves, nor an inch of him that wasn't sore from everything he'd been through.

"What do you know of leadership or the choices I must make?" Thorin snapped, voice low. "Do not presume to understand my choices, Master Baggins, or your place to censure them."

"So you attacked the pale orc for the _Company's_ benefit," Bilbo snapped back, voice falling as equally quiet. "I don't see how."

"That… _thing_ murdered half my family," Thorin snarled.

"And you nearly let him murder you too!" Bilbo hissed back. "What would we have done had you died, Thorin? What would have become of any of us?"

"Gandalf would have rescued you as he did. I could not, would not let that filth move a foot toward the last _finger-hold_ my Company had between them and death. I will never do so in my life, whether you approve of it or not, Burglar."

"The eagles would have come one way or another," Bilbo said, holding his ground even as Thorin's bulk and his fury pressed into Bilbo's space, trying to force him back. "You'd not waited until the last possible moment or made the last possible choice, you threw yourself at him. You wanted revenge."

"How dare you," Thorin began.

"How dare I!" Bilbo interrupted and finally let go of Thorin's wrist and pushed himself against Thorin's chest. Thorin let him go, and some distant part of Bilbo felt relieved that he did, that Bilbo could put a little space between them. He could feel the last grip on his emotions fraying away and the horrible, aching pressure in his head that told him he was near to crying. "You almost died. Do you think so little of your life? Do you think any of us would go on if you did?"

Thorin shook his head, anger still simmering in his every move and word. "Fíli would carry the quest forward. Such matters have been arranged."

"Fíli's young and you're his uncle, Thorin." Bilbo shook his own head, turning away to look at anything but the idiot dwarf who could unravel Bilbo's self-control without lifting a finger. If he started at the trees hard enough, surely the burn behind his eyes would recede. "He would no more know how to carry on than anyone else."

"You do not understand our ways," Thorin said quietly, the anger faded from his voice. "It is a blessing for you and your people, to not know how to carry on from loss the way we have learned."

Bilbo crossed his arms, his shoulders hunching as he glared at the copse of trees and bit his lip until he tasted blood. "You're the _soul_ of this whole quest, and do not doubt it for a second. How you fail to see that is beyond my comprehension. You are so cursedly arrogant and, and stubborn!" he told the trees, and then he yelped, a pathetically watery noise, when two hands dropped on his shoulders.

"Bilbo," Thorin sighed, turning him around.

Bilbo resisted until the persistence of Thorin's pull had him twisting around despite himself, but even then he stared resolutely at the ground.

"Bilbo," he said again, and when Bilbo didn't look up, Thorin tugged him closer, wrapping him in his arms. "I'm alive, thanks to you. I'm whole and hale."

"A warg nearly bit you in half," Bilbo sniped into Thorin's chest. The burst of anger brought tears leaking forward, much to his horror, instead of burning them away like he'd hoped. He scrunched his eyes shut. He hadn't cried since his parents died, and he didn't care to start up again now.

"I'm alive," Thorin said again, voice unshakably calm, arms solid around him.

"If you ever do something so stupid again," Bilbo began and promptly trailed off. He hadn't the faintest idea how to finish that threat.

"You'll be there to save me?" Thorin sounded far too amused.

"I just may not be," he said, and it would have come out sharper like he'd intended if there hadn't been a watery sniffle shoved into the middle of the sentence. "So no more idiocy if you don't mind; I did not come so far from my home just to end things without succeeding, thank-you."

He could hear the eye-roll in Thorin's tone. "I will avoid all 'idiocy' as best as I am able. But I will not shirk my duty to this quest, Bilbo, as I expect no one else to do so."

"Dwarves are the most stubborn people I have ever met. And you're the worst of the lot." Bilbo's head pounded, temples and the base of his skull throbbing like someone had tightened an iron band around them. At least the tears had melted away, and the sick feeling of anger at Thorin was melting back into the tranquil calm Bilbo was used to. What would come would come, and they would all face it, and he would do all he could to keep Thorin from making foolhardy choices from here on out.

Beforehand he hadn't known he'd needed to. Now he realized just how little common sense dwarves actually possessed, which was none at all. No wonder Gandalf was always muttering about the obstinacy of dwarves.

"I hardly believe you have been so quiet out of worry for me." Thorin had come to rest his chin atop Bilbo's head and so the hum of his voice reverberated through Bilbo's skin, causing chills to sweep down his spine. He sounded bemused more than anything.

"Did you not hear me say this quest is lost without you?" Bilbo grumbled and finally let go of where he'd been clutching Thorin's waist like a scared fauntling. "I'll add 'hard of hearing' to my list of your less savory qualities."

Thorin let him go slowly. Bilbo hoped he didn't notice any dampness or redness to his cheeks or eyes. "Unsavory qualities," he said, eyebrow arching.

"Stubborn," Bilbo supplied instead of an explanation. "Rude. Arrogant. Hard of hearing. Would you like me to go on? I think I have pages of them."

"Arrogant," Thorin muttered under his breath, looking less than impressed.

"Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about," Bilbo scoffed. He uselessly straightened his ruined waistcoat. With all the rips and the missing buttons, he knew he would never get it to sit right. He fiddled with the broken threads of where one button was meant to be. "But… Well. I am sorry. About before." He grimaced at Thorin's frown. "I shouldn't have yelled at you. I didn't mean to, only…" Only, Thorin brought out the worst in him, it seemed.

"Peace, Bilbo," Thorin said. "I asked you, did I not? It is well you told me; I would have it no other way." He paused, then added, "And the battle earlier does not weigh on you otherwise?"

Bilbo frowned at him and shook his head. "Is this about the orc again?" At Thorin's slight nod he huffed. "I was defending a friend, all my friends. I'm not going to go around regretting that."

Thorin nodded in acceptance. "Very well." Then his lips quirked. "Perhaps you should speak to Dwalin of your Shire pests."

"Should I?" Bilbo sent him a questioning glance, but Thorin did not elaborate as they headed back to camp.

~*~

Bilbo was laughing, breathless from whatever new tale Bofur was weaving across the campfire. Thorin was far enough away, bracing his aching ribs against a tree at the edge of camp, that their conversation was muted into nothing more than the low hum of words and Bilbo's bright laughter.

Thorin didn't like to admit he was wrong. He was not supposed to be wrong. He was a ruler, a leader trying to hold his people together. One false move could bring them to disaster.

One false move often brought the line of Durin to disaster.

Of course, the more he thought about it, the more Thorin knew he had not been wrong. Worse than that: he'd been lying to himself, so entrenched in not wanting to see clearly he'd convinced himself he could not see Bilbo's worth. It was stunning how one moment could drop the scales from his eyes. That moment when Bilbo had thrown himself at the orc hovering over Thorin's prone form. Perhaps even more so when he'd woken to Gandalf's face blotting out the sky and the only vision before Thorin's eyes was Bilbo's face twisted in fury and fear.

From that moment on, Thorin had been forced to reevaluate every notion he'd held about their burglar's character, his every action shaded in a new light.

He'd liked their burglar, almost from the start. The way his eyebrows had lifted or his lips twisted just so the night Thorin's Company had invaded his home, as though he'd been suppressing caustic sarcasm every time one of them said something obvious. (Thorin's nephews, Mahal bless them, were not prone to quiet thinking and lacked anything resembling tact.) The careful attention to detail Bilbo had paid to their conversation through the night. (Barring Bofur's mischief about the dragon; and Thorin wondered if Bilbo knew Bofur had played the same trick on three separate barflies before they ever left Bree, perfecting the telling with each new audience.)

Even the way Bilbo had refused to join them had impressed Thorin, loath as he'd been to acknowledge it. Bilbo had not let the opinionated, willful wizard roll over him for a second, noticing everything Gandalf didn't say in his cajoling arguments to gain Bilbo's agreement.

What had cemented Thorin's interest was the way Bilbo had run after them, simultaneously panicked and joyful, all to join their quest. It had been stymieing. Their burglar didn't make sense. But Thorin had not been interested in liking him, in trusting any outsider. Not with the fate of his people. Thorin had been down that path before and he'd had no wish to walk it again. He still didn't, but Bilbo was….

But Bilbo was stubborn, kind and perpetually curious. No matter how Thorin had pushed him toward abandoning this quest, he'd never backed down. Bilbo was one of them.

And now Thorin was trapped watching Bilbo laugh with Bofur across the campfire. It grated.

A hulking shadow dropped down at Thorin's side. "Glaring's not going to make him magically appear over here."

Thorin hadn't noticed Dwalin walk over, so preoccupied was he. "What makes you think I am interested in our burglar's company?"

"Because I never said I was talking about the burglar." There was a distinctly satisfied tone to Dwalin's voice.

"I did not ask for your company or your opinions," Thorin said, glancing at his companion out of the corner of his eye.

"You've not bothered asking for the burglar's either," Dwalin snorted and settled more firmly against the side of the tree himself. "You might try it."

"Go jump in the river," Thorin muttered.

"Is that a friendly request or a king's command?" he asked.

"Guess," Thorin slanted him another look. Apparently it wasn't intimidating enough, for Dwalin only hauled out Grasper and his whetstone.

"Request," he said.

"Wrong." Then he added under his breath, "Mutiny."

"King needs an occasional," he paused, both in speech and the steady slide of the stone against the edge of his axe, then sniffed, " _challenge_ or they'll get crusty and overconfident."

"I am _not_ crusty," Thorin shoved his elbow into Dwalin's side.

"You're cracklin' and groanin' with every step," Dwalin goaded.

"You try getting thrown around by a warg. I should like to see it."

"'Bout that," Dwalin paused in his work, jibing tone of voice sliding away like water off of stone. "Kings, as a general rule, aren't supposed to throw their lives to the front line while their Company's forced to watch with their thumbs up their arses—"

Thorin jerked his hand in a silencing motion. "That is hardly how the battle unfolded."

"Near enough," Dwalin said. "If it weren't for our burglar, you'd be dead. I'd have never made it, none of us could. Even the wizard was held up keeping Dori and Ori from fallin', according to Bifur. One second later—"

"If you wish me to evince some regret, I will not; it would be nothing short of a lie. We needed time and I did what I must."

Dwalin snorted. "You went half berserker at the sight of that _urmaz lavamrukhs_ , and don't think you can pretend that little fact away. Not with me. It was my duty to have your back, cousin."

"Dwalin, shut up," Thorin said, not unkindly. "I know what you would say, and I'm sure it will please you to know Bilbo has already scolded me like some dwarfling." He hesitated, then said, "I do not necessarily agree with either of you, but I will take more care."

Dwalin stared at him, then turned to stare in Bilbo's direction. "You will? He did?"

"Aye." He felt irritation well up at the mystified expression on his friend's face. It was not so strange, his taking advice from another. He took Balin's council, and Dwalin's own, more oft than not. Dwalin only ever looked so stunned and dazed when Balin got dogged in explaining a particular point of law.

"He yelled at you," Dwalin said, disbelief coloring his voice.

"Extensively," Thorin muttered.

"Scolded," Dwalin said.

"He went quite red—"

"He always goes red," Dwalin argued.

"Ach, red everywhere—"

" _Everywhere_ —"

"Stop interrupting, sand for brains," Thorin snapped. "In his _face_." He glared to be sure Dwalin would get the message, willing his cousin to shut up, but Dwalin was still slanting glances back and forth between Bilbo and Thorin, frowning intently.

"…I think," Dwalin began.

"May Mahal preserve us," Thorin griped.

"I'll do you a favor, however an ingrate you happen to be," Dwalin declared. Before Thorin could protest he neither needed nor wanted any favors Dwalin was calling out, "Burglar! A word."

Bilbo looked up from where he was leaning in close to Bofur, the pair of them conspiratorial and entirely too comfortable. He stared across at Thorin—who was scowling, but he meant that scowl for Dwalin, Mahal curse it—and Dwalin, who Thorin knew always discomfited their resident hobbit, and went wide-eyed and worried, looking like a deer caught in a wolf's sights. He leaned in close to Bofur, clearly asking if Bofur knew what was going on.

Bofur said something that made Bilbo wince, to which Bofur quickly added something else and slapped Bilbo on the shoulder.

"I'm going to leave you hanging from some sorry Mirkwood tree for the elves to find," Thorin growled as he watched Bilbo stand and come in their direction, looking for all the world like he was walking into his own execution but that he planned to do so without faltering.

"You can try if we ever get there and we'll see who the better fighter is. Still have to go through this 'friend' of the wizard's before then." Dwalin slotted Grasper back in its place and pulled out Keeper.

"Insubordination," Thorin muttered under his breath. Right before Bilbo came into hearing he added, "And the only reason you'd win are the dirty tricks you've picked up from Nori."

Two faint spots of red came to Dwalin's cheeks, as they always did whenever his flirtation with Nori came up. Or at least whenever Thorin or Balin brought it up; Thorin was sure anyone else who mentioned it never lived long enough to discover whether Dwalin blushed or not.

"That's not what we're doin' together," his cousin muttered in defiance of Thorin's smirk before abruptly falling silent, gaze flickering past Thorin.

"You needed something?" Bilbo was suddenly there, looking down at them from where he stood, eyes moving from Thorin to Dwalin in concern, and Mahal, how did he move so silently? Perhaps Gandalf had been honest in a hobbit's ability to burgle.

Bilbo's concerned gaze pinned itself on Thorin, the frown deepening into something resembling worry. "Your ribs are bothering you. Oh—I didn't hit them earlier, did I?" Thorin could feel Dwalin's eyebrows shooting up to introduce themselves to his tattoos.

"What? No, you did nothing, Bilbo. We were only—"

"Thorin had a question about the Shire." Dwalin bared his teeth in a smile between the two of them, though 'smile' was a charitable description if Thorin were honest. Bilbo seemed to agree, shifting over until Thorin and the tree stood between the two of them.

"Did you? Er. I will do my best to answer any questions," he trailed off, frowning at them as though he were trying to puzzle them out. Thorin could hardly blame him; neither he nor Dwalin had ever expressed much interest in the Shire before. The most Thorin had ever discussed it had been with Bilbo in Rivendell, when they'd had a fair amount of elvish wine and found themselves discussing history up on their quarters' balcony while the others snored below them in the common room. Bilbo would hardly expect either of them to be interested now.

Thorin shot his friend a half-hearted glare. Thorin _was_ interested now, more for Bilbo's sake than anything else. And an uncomfortable need to know by how much he'd misjudged Bilbo's homeland.

"Is this about the snails?" Bilbo asked, shooting Dwalin a curious look.

Dwalin was frowning between Thorin and Bilbo. "Snails? What did you two… No, nothin' of the sort."

"Oh. If you wanted to ask me then..?" Bilbo prompted, looking to Thorin.

It was only that moment Thorin realized he didn't have a thing to ask.

Neither, apparently, did Dwalin.

"As it's not my area and you've now the expert on the topic, I'll retire for the few hours before middle shift," his cousin declared stolidly, quickly clipping Keeper away and standing with a squeeze to Thorin's shoulder. "Try not to break him." Thorin didn't know if Dwalin was speaking to him or Bilbo.

Bilbo blinked, offered a faint 'good night' to Dwalin's back and began to fidget on his feet. When Thorin only stared up at him in return he cleared his throat. "If you don't wish to discuss it, I can…" He waved vaguely toward the camp. "Or…"

"Or?" Thorin asked, more than a little surprised Bilbo wasn't fleeing yet.

"Or, er, stay? We can talk about other things, if you wanted company." Bilbo offered. He hurried on, "Not that you need company—or want it, or I mean, not that you don't… Want company… Only if you did. Which of course you don't, since you're over here, and not over there, with company. The Company. Us—what was that question about the Shire?" He cut himself off, biting his bottom lip as if to keep any further words in.

The camp before them had gone strangely silent. Thorin ignored it. "Would you sit, Bilbo?" He was afraid if Bilbo stood there any longer he would fall over from fidgeting. Or Thorin would yank him down to clear that hesitation from his face.

Bilbo's uncertainty lasted barely a second longer. He sat at the side opposite from where Dwalin had been, shifting close to Thorin's side but not so near as to press into him. Thorin frowned, watching him, noticing the way shivers crept down his shoulders.

"You're sure I didn't hurt you, make anything worse, before?" Bilbo asked. "I know you're twice as big as me, but your ribs—Óin said four of them were bruised, didn't he? And I didn't mean to, I was so upset…"

"I'm fine," Thorin said. "Dwarves do not injure so easily. We are made to know stone." They were made to _be_ stone, in some sense, and carried many traits of the mountains across all seven clans, but he supposed theology was not a discussion for this night. Not least of all because Balin would have a fit, and was most certainly listening in with the others to the best of his ability. Bilbo shivered again. "You're cold. Do all hobbits freeze so easily?"

Bilbo shot him an unimpressed look. "Some of us aren't made to withstand mountain winters, I'll have you know. Was that the question you wished to ask—oh! What are you...?"

Thorin had slid an arm around the hobbit's waist and pulled him in to his side. It seemed the vastly more expedient method than trying to talk Bilbo into leaning against him. He suspected there would have been more stammering and preposterous questions about Thorin's health.

Bilbo tilted his head back to frown at Thorin, the image almost too _cute_ , of all things, the way his curls fell away from his face and small, button nose scrunched in mild annoyance. "You didn't have to do that." Thorin heard the silent 'why did you do that' in the protest.

"You'll stay warmer this way. Freezing to death of all demises would be an ironic choice after the day we've had," Thorin said, knowing he was perfectly reasonable in his logic. He didn't think about the warm line of Bilbo's thigh pressed against his own, or the way Bilbo's shoulder dug into the bruised skin under his arm. He _would not_ look over at Bofur. It didn't matter what he was doing. Nor would he look toward Dwalin, who was speaking in quiet tones with Balin.

"Explain hobbit clans," Thorin said, recalling the frequency Bilbo spoke of Took relations versus his Baggins kin. It seemed a strange thing to delineate his line by paternal and maternal kin, but he knew it held importance to Bilbo.

Bilbo pressed lightly into his side. "Was that a request or an order?"

Thorin frowned at the way his words echoed Dwalin's. "A question, of course. You need not answer."

Bilbo laughed. "You might work on phrasing questions _as_ questions. But as it happens that's a rather dangerous one, as you'll not find a hobbit in the wide world—or, well, the Shire—who'll refuse an excuse to tell a tale or two about their family history. Why, I've known lads in their drink to get into a brawl over the doings of their great-grandfathers and remotest cousins, given the least encouragement of undue patience."

As it turned out, Bilbo was not exaggerating. He outlined the two sides of his family, often slipping off into a tangent about this member or that corner of the Shire. And he did not stop. All he required was the occasional leading question or assenting rumble to know his audience was still attentive. Oddly enough, Thorin found it soothing when he expected to find it grating, and there was a strange admiration in the way Bilbo recounted his extensive family tree as though the names hung before his eyes. Thorin could recount every single one of his own genealogy, but that was a skill learned from royal necessity and hard-won lessons at his father's knee. Bilbo seemed to keep a catalogue of the entire Shire's population in his head.

"Do all hobbits know their kin half so well?" he asked in a lull, somewhere between Bilbo's great-granduncle Bullroarer Took and his cousin Falco Chubb-Baggins, who had gotten into a cask of Chubb homebrew when he was only fourteen.

"Hmm?" Bilbo paused, smothered a yawn. "For the most part. Some aren't inclined to it, but most any hobbit will have a passion for it and remember as many generations back as our families can teach us. It's why we keep so few written histories, not that anyone would notice! Half the Shire wouldn't recognize a book worth sitting on, and the other races have never been unduly interested in our goings-on." He sounded more amused than bothered by either of those facts. He hummed sleepily, wiggling until he could curl himself firmly against Thorin's side. 

"I'm interested," Thorin said quietly, finding that it was true. He tried to pin the feeling in his mind but it slid away from his grasp like oil in water.

Bilbo huffed a small laugh. "Are you? You weren't even two days ago, you know. Anyway, you might come to regret that." His voice was slowing and softening as exhaustion ate at the edges of their conversation.

Thorin realized with a start that the campfire was banked low and the rest of the Company was asleep, bundled together for warmth since they'd lost most of their supplies. Only Balin remained awake, sitting as their first watch on a large rock near the other end of camp. He was faced away from them, but from the way his head canted to the side, Thorin suspected the old busybody was listening in. He frowned mutinously at Balin's back.

"Perhaps it's time to sleep," he spoke quietly to the top of Bilbo's head. Bilbo didn't respond. "Bilbo?" he shifted slightly, skating his fingers across Bilbo's hip where his hand still lay trapped wrapped around his waist. Bilbo made a noise of protest, evading the fingers by turning into Thorin's side.

"You're asleep," Thorin said in disbelief. "Not a minute ago you were in the middle of Falco's being caught in the garden with the cucumbers and a roll of twine." With further consideration on the topic, Thorin really wasn't sure he cared to know the end of that story. Still, how did one fall asleep nearly midsentence? "Bilbo?"

Bilbo snuffled into Thorin's side, face pressing against his bruised ribs.

Thorin sighed before rearranging himself, shifting down to slouch against his tree, careful not to jar Bilbo in the movement. He settled his cloak over them both. "Sleep well, Bilbo."

But Thorin did not fall asleep so quickly, trying as hard as he was to pretend he didn't enjoy the weight of Bilbo against him. Nor how unnerved he was by the ease his thoughts fell into the rhythm of calling Bilbo by his given name. It all felt natural, right in a way Thorin did not wish to examine too closely. He forced his eyes closed instead of focusing on the curly top of golden hair. He was being ridiculous. He was not in love with Bilbo—their burglar. One did not fall in love between one minute and the next.

 _His name is Bilbo_ , a little voice corrected in the back of his mind.

~*~

Bilbo knocked softly on the massive wooden door, not sure he wanted Thorin to hear him or not.

Which of course meant Thorin did, if the grumpy "enter" was anything to go by. When Bilbo nudged the door open, Thorin looked as surprised to see Bilbo as Bilbo had felt when Dwalin shoved him toward Beorn's room with a pile of bandages and a jar of ointment. And Eru, he was _shirtless_ , the muscular frame thick with chest hair and tattoos, old scars and the fresh bites and bruises from the warg, and those odd, thick gold bands on each bicep that Bilbo had noticed the first time the Company had ever stopped to bathe in a stream; Bilbo shifted his gaze and stared determinedly at a point just beyond Thorin's shoulder. He didn't know if he was more unsettled by the nakedness or the injuries, but neither were things for him to go around gawking at.

Not that Thorin was naked. He had his trousers on, Bilbo had seen them in them in the brief glance before his mind told him not to stare. And boots. What was it with dwarves and their boots? Bilbo had seen Óin _bathe_ with not a stitch but his boots laced up to his calves.

But, well, Bilbo was given a job to do and he'd see it done. Even though he suspected Thorin would be sourer than usual at the necessity of admitting he was genuinely injured. Even though Thorin was half naked.

"Óin sent me," he said, stepping in and kicking the door shut behind him. It wasn't precisely polite, but his hands were full, and he certainly wasn't going to wait for Thorin's permission. It would likely never come. "Well. Dwalin sent me. Óin's busy looking after the others now that he's decided you're not five minutes from death. Dori's pulled something from hanging between Gandalf and Ori for so long, and Kíli's got some minor burns." He shuffled into the room and looked around for a place to set his bundle only to find everything but the bed was too high to reach without straining. Splendid. How was a Man as large as Beorn _allowed_?

"And Glóin noticed he's singed his beard, I'm sure you've heard with all the ruckus he's making. You'd think _he_ was dying, honestly. I know you dwarves are particular about hair but it's not like he's lost a limb—"

"It is a near enough comparison," Thorin interrupted. "Do you always babble for a bedside manner?"

Bilbo's jaw clicked shut and he shot the dwarf a dirty look. "Óin says you're to bathe—or Dwalin said, and I'm starting to worry about him, he's acting…" Bilbo didn't know how to say 'amiable' without coming off as rude and his eyes slanted toward the great low-edged wooden tub in the center of the room. Steam gently rose from it. "Never mind. Óin, or Dwalin, has sent me here to make sure your injuries are bandaged."

Óin seemed under the impression it was a matter Thorin wouldn't bother with given half a chance. Somehow Bilbo did not find that a surprise. "You're not infallible," he added apropos to nothing, giving a particularly displeased glare. "And why aren't you in the tub?"

"I was in the process of getting in the tub before you stormed the room," Thorin said and promptly finished unlacing his trousers, which Bilbo only just noticed were half undone already. He felt heat rising in his cheeks, but he kept his gaze resolutely on Thorin. Or at least the bit of wall behind him.

And still he found himself speaking, "Shouldn't your boots be off before your trousers?" There were times—many, countless times—Bilbo wished he'd not inherited his tongue from his mother. Or his nosy curiosity from his father.

In response Thorin muttered something beneath his breath, his fingers tangled in the waistband of trousers that were already pushed down just over his hips. He sent Bilbo a dark look and bent toward the clasps at the top of one boot, hand moving to unbuckle them. And he hissed, the same hand shooting up to cradle his ribs instinctively.

Bilbo leapt forward, tossing the bandages on the bed. "Goodness! Why didn't you say? Foolish dwarf, you can ask for help, you realize. It wouldn't kill you."

"I'm fine," Thorin growled, but he was leaning his weight against the bed behind him, still holding his ribs, obviously in pain. Bilbo could pull his hair out from the stubbornness of dwarves. One in particular. He wondered what the Company would say to _that_ notion, and he'd be a liar if he said the idea of trying it out on them didn't give him a little thrill of amusement. Perhaps he would, tomorrow.

"Of course you are, that's why you're nearly hunched in two. Really, I don't mind helping." He knelt down at Thorin's side and inspected the clasp. Thorin made a somewhat strangled noise, no doubt irate Bilbo dare insinuate—alright, outright state the obvious—Thorin would need any assistance, but Bilbo paid him no mind.

"Oh, these are a trick, aren't they?" Bilbo hummed, leaning closer to inspect the leather straps held snug by a series of metal buckles. He traced his fingers over the top one, feeling around the edges of it. If there was one thing he'd learned of dwarf craftsmanship over the weeks of travel, it was that they had a clever secret to everything. Even some of Bombur's larger beads opened like secret treasure boxes; he kept spare spice in one, and a palmful of gems in another. "Ah! Yes, clever indeed." He'd found it, just the spot on the underside that compressed outward and released a latch. It was quick work to release the few down the length of the leather, and then he shuffled over and quickly undid the other boot.

"Easy enough—with help, I should say. If you lean against the bed I can pull them off." He beamed up at Thorin only to have his smile melt away as concern took over. "Thorin? Are you alright? You look a touch flushed. Óin said there was no infection—"

"I'm fine," Thorin snapped again, but his voice was going hoarse. He almost looked dizzy, Bilbo thought, concern growing deeper, and his eyes were dark.

Bilbo hesitated, staring up—Thorin's face was flushing before Bilbo's very eyes, and if that wasn't a concern for a fever Bilbo wasn't a Baggins—before shaking himself and roundly telling himself off. If Thorin was growing feverish, Bilbo had to get him in the bath and check in with Óin. "Off with your boots then," he said firmly, looking back down at the fur lined contraptions. "I don't see why the lot of you go clomping around in these things anyway," he added, more to himself than his company.

"Because we prefer our toes to remain attached to our feet and not crushed from shifting rock or orc blades," Thorin said, voice still rough, but irritation at least slipping into it. If Thorin was well enough to be irritated he couldn't be that ill.

Bilbo shot one brief disdainful glare up at him—brief because, Eru, he'd not meant to get an eyeful of those unlaced trousers that revealed pale skin and a dark trail of hair, and his ears burned as he realized exactly what position he was in. Kneeling. At Thorin's feet. With Thorin's trousers half off. Perhaps Dwalin had sent Bilbo in to mortify him to death.

He forced his thoughts back together. "No wonder you need such absurd trappings then; hobbits are much too sensible to deal in orcs and mountains."

"You're dealing in both, quite successfully." There was a layer of amusement over irritation now, and Bilbo was pleased to note his voice was losing the worrisome hoarse quality.

"I'm not a very typical hobbit anymore," Bilbo said, glancing up at Thorin again, his _face_ and he was quick to skirt his eyes over…anywhere else. He didn't know how he felt about his own words, and if a touch of the frown returning to the dwarf king's mouth was any indication, Thorin had noticed his ambivalence. "Boots," he added quickly. "Off, if you don't mind. All you have to do is lift a foot."

The frown bloomed into a full-fledged scowl, but Thorin obediently shifted his weight back against Beorn's oversized bed and lifted one leg. Bilbo quickly tugged the boot off along with the accompanying wooly sock, and then the other. Dwarven feet were quite delicate, with very little hair and thin, pale skin, Bilbo realized, which he'd noticed peripherally before, but had never seen up close.

"May I now bathe, Master Baggins, or were there any other orders you wished to give first?"

Bilbo narrowed his eyes. "Arrogant," was all he said, then, after a pause where Thorin's eyes had widened and narrowed comically fast, "And yes. You ought to remove your trousers before you bathe, as is the sensible custom of my people. _After I get up_ ," he added hurriedly when thick calloused hands returned to the waistband of said trousers.

Thorin laughed. It was a soft chuckle of amusement, and Bilbo knew it was at his expense, but… Thorin laughed. Bilbo had never heard him do so outside select company. Namely his nephews and Dwalin. Occasionally Balin. He felt a strange warm fizz in his belly. Perhaps it was Bilbo who was falling ill. Or perhaps he needed another of Beorn's excellent honey cakes. It had been awhile since any of them had regular, full meals after all. Bilbo had to catch up on a number of them. Despite that, he smiled at Thorin as he stood. "And it's Bilbo."

"Bilbo," Thorin corrected, stepping toward the bath. Most assuredly naked and suddenly completely relaxed, as if something had shifted in his thoughts. Bilbo frowned after Thorin's back, trying to puzzle it out, and then realized what he was doing. Staring, at Thorin's very exposed back. And bum. And muscular, thick legs smattered with more of that dark hair.

He dragged his eyes to the floor and started silently scolding himself. It wasn't as if he hadn't seen Thorin naked before. He'd been the unfortunate witness to _all_ the dwarves' naked bums—and more, and Bilbo would _not_ think of the curious ways and places they pierced themselves with bits of metal right now—as they gleefully dove into streams and picked water fights or even when someone had to take a piss. There was not much privacy on an adventure, Bilbo had been quick—and alarmed—to learn. So now, of all times, why was Thorin's lack of modesty even a drop distracting?

It was maddening.

"Bilbo?" Thorin prompted.

Bilbo's head shot up from his intent study of the floor to see Thorin watching him, eyebrow arched. "Ah. Pardon? I missed that last part."

"I said if you insist on aiding me, assistance with the bath would not be remiss." He'd climbed into the tub when Bilbo had been distracted, and though it was low-built for Beorn's size it still came up almost to Thorin's waist. "If I can't bend to remove my own boots washing will be a problem."

"Oh, yes, of course." Bilbo didn't move, staring somewhat uselessly at the dwarf who was patiently staring back.

"There's a bench running around the edge should you fear drowning," Thorin said eventually. Bilbo blinked, stared at him. Was Thorin teasing him? He put on his best frown and marched forward. He would not be out-stubborned even by this dwarf, Eru preserve him.

The tub had a broad rim, wide enough Bilbo could perch on it if he so chose, and Beorn's servants had somehow rustled up a set of wooden steps that led up to the rim. Bilbo was two steps up before Thorin politely inquired if he was planning on bathing in his clothes when hobbits were too _sensible_ to exhibit such behavior.

He'd never sputtered or blushed so much in his life. It was absurd. "Right," he said. "…right. I thought I would." He waved vaguely. "Help from up on the edge."

"To what purpose?" Thorin was turning away, lowering himself to the bench that was indeed running the length of the large bathtub. Bilbo tried not to stare at the way the water swirled and distorted the scars and tattoos littering Thorin's chest. "You need a bath as much as I do, and we hardly want for space."

"Right," Bilbo said again, and still he hesitated.

Thorin frowned at him. "What's the matter?"

"N-nothing, only." Bilbo gestured vaguely. "I don't think—it's not really. It's not proper?"

That hallmark frown deepened, eyebrows drawing low to worsen its effect. "We're hardly strangers. You've a peculiar sense of modesty, if you may bathe in front of fourteen, but not in front of one."

Bilbo floundered. "That wasn't proper either, as it happens," he sighed. He stepped off the stool, already pulling off his waistcoat and folding the ruined material into a neat bundle.

"So you'll break your propriety for fourteen and not for one? That makes no more sense," came Thorin's exasperated voice.

"Oh, stuff it, you've already won," Bilbo complained, shrugging out of his shirt next. The once white cotton was a brownish grey disaster, but at least it still had all its buttons—some of them were loose, but they were all there. It was the principle of the thing.

When Bilbo folded the last of his clothing and turned back he found Thorin had stretched his arms out along the rim of the tub, and was watching him intently.

"You're bruised," was all he said, sounding displeased and accusatory all at once.

"You're one to talk," Bilbo sniped back, quickly climbing into the tub and immersing himself in the water. It was deliciously hot, and Bilbo was small enough the water came all the way up to his neck when he sat. "You're not the only one who spent the last week dodging orcs and escaping horrid goblin caves, I'll have you know."

"Are you injured?" Thorin demanded. He shifted closer to Bilbo, closing the distance between them until there was nothing but a handful of inches, grabbing Bilbo's arm and tracing fingers over the blackish blue mark where the goblin had shoved into his shoulder before they'd both tumbled over the edge of the cave. Something of Thorin's own sense of propriety must have kept his hands from wandering to the truly spectacular bruises along his torso, chest, sides and back, and the few scattered across his legs. Falling down a ravine was no small matter and Bilbo knew he was fortunate not to have been worse off.

"No more than anyone else, nothing beside the bruises." He smiled encouragingly, hoping it would alleviate the concern on Thorin's face. And wasn't that a change? In three days Bilbo had become someone Thorin worried over. "Hobbits know how to take a fall, surprisingly enough," he added, to distract them both. "Our bones rarely break from such things. You'd never know it in the Shire, because what's there to fall off of? Aside from the occasional tree, which most young hobbits will do." He let himself relax back into the lovely, hot water as his mind wandered back to his childhood. "My mother, now she took a fall from a number of things, not least of all the oak tree over Bag-End, and never broke a thing. Rolled right down the hill from tree crest to the creek at the bottom. Said she was seeing about an injured raven at the top. She'd always been too energetic by half. But there had been a bird—even a messenger one, I think, with a little scroll around its leg and a broken wing. She kept it all through the fall until it was well enough to go on its way."

Thorin hummed acknowledgement. "Perhaps from Ered Luin. We raise messenger ravens there, though they have never compared to the noble raven lines of Erebor. I do not recall other races who use ravens for messengers." His thumb brushed methodically along Bilbo's bruise and when Bilbo pried his eyes open—when had he closed them?—he found Thorin watching the mark as though mesmerized by it. Bilbo's breath caught in his throat.

He coughed, straightened abruptly, shoving the sudden upwelling of flutters and fizz in his belly back into the recesses of his mind as it became abundantly clear to him just why he was acting such a fool around the dwarf king all of a sudden. Thorin was being _kind_ , he was trying to make them friends. That did not mean his sudden interest in Bilbo's welfare was any more than that. Bilbo would not, _could not_ think of Thorin in any romantic light. As if that path didn't obviously lead to ruin. He cleared his throat. "Yes, well. I'm sure I warned you what happens when a hobbit begins reminiscing. We could be here all night and that's hardly useful at all. I should… We should." He waved between them, as if that gesture would express his thoughts.

The distracted look washed away from Thorin's face, a smile quirking the corners of his lips. Thorin looked nice smiling. Of course he looked nice brooding, but his smile, even this small one, lightened up his eyes and the worried lines that seemed permanently etched into his skin. Like a statue, Bilbo thought vaguely, which was fitting indeed for a dwarf.

"It is well to relax first, Bilbo," he said, squeezing Bilbo's bicep briefly before letting go. "I have to undo my braids first regardless. It will take time."

Of course, Thorin's movements were slow and stilted, and Bilbo watched the way he tentatively tested the range of motion in his shoulder. "Can I help?" he blurted out before he could think better of it. Thorin froze, his eyes flicking to Bilbo's face before he lowered his arms.

"I didn't," Bilbo started quickly, realizing just what a blunder in etiquette he'd made. He had the sudden temptation to sink below the water and drown himself. "That is, what I mean to say, I didn't mean—I know how important braids are. I don't know what they mean, of course, but Balin's explained some things and it's hard to miss how only families touch each other's hair, which is honestly strange to me. That is, I'm a hobbit—obviously. And we don't—" He buried his face in his hands and groaned. "I didn't mean offense," he spoke to his palms after a minute of staring into the darkness of his own closed eyelids, and the stumbling words of his own mortification finally slipped away. "Only, you're injured, and I'm here to help, and it would be alright if I did it since I'm not a dwarf, right? Or I could go get Fíli or Kíli—oh, why didn't I think of that?" Meaning, why hadn't he thought of that before he opened his big, thoughtless mouth.

But he couldn't hide forever, that would hardly get him anywhere and best to get the undoubtedly looming argument over with. When he looked up he honestly expected to see Thorin's wrath writ across his face, or at least find a deeply offended dwarf. He didn't expect to see assessing consideration. Bilbo blinked uncertainly at the stock-still dwarf.

"I did not think I scared you so," Thorin said eventually.

When silence descended this time, it was because Bilbo was gobsmacked. It was an improvement over horrified. "You don't scare me," he snapped when his mind reminded him he was probably meant to speak here. "You're… maddening and oversensitive, and every time I say one word about anything dwarvish, a good half of the Company goes stony with some remarkable sense of offended dignity. So excuse me if I don't care to step on anyone's toes." He stood in a huff. "Of all the ridiculous things. Scared of you!"

Thorin caught his wrist, implacably holding him in place. "Where are you going?"

Bilbo pursed his lips. "I'm going to get one of your impossible nephews so we can set this entire affair aside."

Thorin tugged Bilbo back down onto the bench. "Let them rest. You are _sanbâh_ , _khazâdbâh_. As you pointed out, there is nothing amiss in aiding me."

"...really?" He'd… well, he'd not expected that at all, not even in the furthest reaches of his imagination. They stared at each other for a long moment, and at least now Bilbo wasn't the only one hesitant to move forward. But he was the first to move, shifting closer. "You're sure?"

Thorin's sharp nod was likely all he would get, so he resolutely moved to the first braid. Undoing the first heavy, silver bead, it was hard to resist twisting it in his fingers, inspecting the angular patterns etched into it, but he set it carefully on the ledge of the tub and began carding out Thorin's braids. That was also an exercise in resisting temptation, his fingers wishing to twine through those dark locks and feel the weight of it, the smoothness. Thorin held perfectly still, Bilbo could hardly tell he was _breathing_ , and he found himself moving slower and more tentatively himself, as though soothing a spooked animal.

"What is _sanbâh_?" He knew his pronunciation was awful and Thorin's smile only confirmed it, but it was a good way to distract them both so Bilbo persisted. "And _khazâdbâh_? _Khazâd_ , I know that means dwarf, but what is _bâh_?"

" _Sanbâh_ ," Thorin spoke it slowly, dragging out the syllables. The low 'a's and guttural twist on the last syllable had Bilbo stumbling over the repetition. "It means true friend," he said after walking Bilbo through it until he was repeating it satisfactorily. He still remained frozen and only turned his head when the first braid was undone so Bilbo could reach the second, but the tense line of his shoulders was slowly relaxing. " _Khazâdbâh_ means you are Dwarf-friend."

Bilbo repeated it, " _Khazâdbâh_ ," twisting the word in his mouth and ignoring the way Thorin's lips and scruffy beard twitched. "I suppose _bâh_ means friend?" He took a great deal of satisfaction from Thorin's surprise as he set the second bead aside.

"It is. You are very keen, Bilbo," Thorin said. "Now, _khaz_ âd _bâh_. You're not accenting the second syllable enough."

"I'm fond of languages." Bilbo frowned, fingers pausing in their work. "And I was sure it's _khazad_. Or was it _khazd_? Botheration."

"And who taught you so?" Thorin asked, eyebrows arching.

Bilbo's mouth was already opening to speak before he remembered, and promptly snapped it shut again. "I don't think," he said carefully, shooting Thorin a suspicious look, "it would be wise to reveal my sources."

"Someone of the Company then," Thorin hummed. "I cannot fault them for teaching you when I am doing the same, however—"

"It was only the one word," Bilbo assured quickly and hurried back to unraveling the braid. "Well, er. There were a few others but I'm fairly certain they're inappropriate in polite company."

Thorin snorted. "Which are?"

Bilbo shook his head mutely. "Not a chance. But you've not explained _khazad_ yet. Turn your head?"

"Why don't we exchange information," Thorin suggested, mouth quirking in that half smile he'd been sharing with Bilbo since the Carrock before he obediently twisted away so Bilbo could unclasp the two thick gold beads Thorin wore buried beneath his hair. It was only when Thorin looked away that Bilbo realized how closely he'd been watching Bilbo's face since he'd begun on his braids.

"Not a chance," Bilbo said again, resolute, and forced himself to focus on the task at hand and not what Thorin's strange behavior might mean. He ignored the way his face heated.

Thorin shrugged. "Then I suppose our lessons are complete."

Bilbo couldn't stop the noise of protest, feeling his indignity rising like a tide. "That's, oh! That is _rude_ , Thorin. Simply bad form." Thorin shrugged again. Bilbo glared and splashed a handful of water at him. "Fine, I will tell you, but you'll go first. And you'll not tell a soul."

"Agreed, as I am sure you are a hobbit of your word," Thorin said quickly. He was smiling again. "Though it would be wise in general not to mention these lessons. Our language is secret and some of our Company would not approve. Balin is fastidious in such matters, for example." The silent 'I would not have approved three days ago' wasn't said, but Bilbo suspected it was there, though he couldn't stop his own smile at the mention of Balin. All the more reason not to tell Thorin of his tutors. " _Khazâd_ means dwarves, it is plural. You're not adding the longer and lower register of the sound to indicate so, and so it sounds closer to the singular, _khuzd_ , which is what I suspect your secret tutor taught you."

"Oh. Some of us can't speak as growly as dwarves, thank-you," he said with no heat in his voice. He was busy filing that bit of information away. His fingers absently carded through Thorin's thick hair, finger-combing out the occasional snarl.

"Growly," Thorin said, head tilting in his direction.

Bilbo ignored him and tried saying _khazâd_ again. Thorin didn't seem to mind and continued to correct him on his pronunciation until he was tempted to splash water at the dwarf's face again.

~*~

The world was dark and heavy and warm when Bilbo came to, and he was so comfortable he could not bother to move or even think for many long minutes as he drifted on the edge of fading dreams.

But then last night started sinking back into his awareness. Thorin's injuries, taking a bath, their impromptu language lessons, and Thorin's hair. His very pretty hair that went on forever and became temptingly soft when the weeks of travel and grime were washed from it.

Bilbo had fallen asleep, he realized groggily. Somewhere between their bathing with Beorn's hardy soaps and sitting back to relax in the still-warm water Bilbo had slipped away from the world. It was a wonder he didn't drown. But he wasn't in the tub anymore. In fact, he didn't quite know where he was, except that it was warm and soft and unjustifiably comfortable. He frowned sleepily into the darkness and pried his eyes open.

All he saw was more darkness, the absolute kind one found in the dead of night.

He was in a bed, he realized vaguely, the feather mattress and scent of cotton sheets beneath him finally registering in his mind. But Beorn only had one bed—his own, which he'd offered to Thorin, Bilbo suspected more for the dwarf's injuries than any interest in being an attentive host.

Then he heard what must have woken him; there was a soft, muffled mix of scratching, snuffling and growling coming from far away, as though something were trying to get into Beorn's house. He tensed as his mind jumped to wargs. Wargs with horrible orc riders astride them. What if they'd come here?

Something tightened around his torso, and then there was the shift and press of a body at his back, and Bilbo was jarred out of his thoughts. In fact, the movement caused all thought to quite leave his head entirely, for the body at his back was definitely, assuredly naked, a solid wall of smooth, hot skin and tickling hair. And if Bilbo could feel that, that meant _Bilbo_ was naked. He focused on that thought, tried to pin it down and make it fit into something that made a lick of sense. But no, it made no sense. Bilbo was in Thorin's bed? Naked?

Bilbo was in Thorin's bed. Naked.

They were both naked.

Had they done something he'd forgotten about last night? No, _no_ , he was sure he would remember agreeing to sleep in Thorin's bed. And most certainly would never do so bare. He wasn't near so mad, no matter what any hobbit back home might say since he'd run off.

But he had fallen asleep in the bath. Thorin must have put him to bed.

 _Naked?_ His mind demanded. That hardly seemed… There was something wrong with that notion. They were friends, and that achievement had been hard won enough. There was no conceivable way on Yavanna's green land that Thorin wanted anything more. Hadn't he called Bilbo friend last night? _Sanbâh_ and _khazâdbâh_.

Bilbo felt the tension leak out of him at that thought. They were friends. This was not some attempt to seduce Bilbo—the notion nearly made Bilbo laugh, and he had to stifle a giggle into his pillow. Thorin, Bilbo was entirely sure, was not the seducing sort. He was far too abrupt for that sort of thing. This had to be the act of a friend; it even made sense, if he thought about it, considering the dwarves had no sense of modesty whatsoever. Thorin probably hadn't thought twice about either of them being naked, not the way a hobbit would.

And it was awfully nice, sleeping in a bed. A very warm, soft bed, with his own personal dwarf-shaped warmer at his back. It wouldn't do any harm to stay, would it? Besides, he thought as sleep began dragging him back down into dreams, he doubted he could shift Thorin's arm off him long enough to get up anyway; ridiculous dwarves made of iron.

~*~

Thorin was in ten kinds of trouble. Last night had proved that, leaving no degree of doubt. When he'd told Bilbo he was _sanbâh_ , Thorin had been hoping if he said the word out loud it would be true, instead of the words he wanted to use. _Ghivasha_. _Âzyungâl_. _Sanâzyung_. His One.

Now he watched Bilbo sleep, unable to help himself. He'd been up for hours, used to waking with the dawn, but he couldn't bring himself to get out of bed, or wake Bilbo and shatter the serene moment. Bilbo, who would undoubtedly become flustered and fall back on his strange, hobbitish propriety when he woke. Whose pale, soft back was mottled with the bruises that made Thorin want to go back to Goblintown and strangle every last orc with his bare hands. Bilbo, who was curled up in front of Thorin, clutching one of Beorn's overlarge pillows like he was holding a lover.

Thorin was jealous of a pillow.

There was a near-silent knock on the door and Thorin barely had time to look up from his study before it was opening and Balin was slipping in with a tray balanced on one hand. The scent of fresh, warm bread, honey and butter, and the sharp bite of tea drifted over from the tray.

Balin said nothing at the sight of the two of them in bed, though his beard twitched from his smile. "Breakfast is nearly gone and I thought it best I bring this before one of the lads decided to," he said quietly, setting the tray on the nightstand. He shamelessly inspected the tableau before him, no doubt to gather as much gossip as he could before leaving, and a frown touched his mouth. "Badly bruised, wasn't he?"

Thorin made a noise of assent. "He says there is nothing worse. Did Óin clear him?"

Balin shrugged, "Bilbo didn't mention any hurts."

"I am not sure he would think of it," Thorin grumbled in return, careful to keep his voice quiet so as not to wake the subject of their conversation.

Balin smirked. "It's good to see you're facing your feelings at last, laddie."

Thorin glared at him.

Balin only shook his head and hid his smile better.

"It is not what you think," Thorin lied smoothly, careful to keep the glower off his face and out of his voice.

"It is exactly as I think."

"Love does not," Thorin cut himself off, cursing himself at the slip. Balin was giving him an entirely too satisfied look. Slowly he continued, quietly as he could, "Love does not happen in the span of a day, Balin. I am not—I cannot be."

"In the span of a day? I've only been telling you since Rivendell. Your obstinacy has kept you blind, my friend." Balin shook his head and smiled softly down at Bilbo's sleeping form. "You've been ignoring what's right before your eyes for week upon week, in more ways than one."

He'd been trying not to think of the way he'd brushed off Balin's constant advice to give Bilbo a chance and not judge him so quickly, or harshly. It was not one of his better moments. "We do not fall in love so easily," Thorin began, only to have Balin cut him off.

"Is that so? If I recall the family history rightly, boots over beard is always how the line of Durin has taken to romance. Your mother never tired of telling how your father proposed five minutes after laying eyes on her. And when Dís met Vili, I was afraid she would drag him home without a by-your-leave to the poor fellow. And my father often said Thror spent a full year obsessing over your grandmother before ever admitting her existence, as if everyone at court hadn't known." Balin shot a pointed look between Bilbo and Thorin. "You'd best find a way to tell him so he has time to consider the ramifications of courting a king." And then he added under his breath, "Or even just a Durin, poor fellow."

"Do you not have gossip to go spread about Bilbo sleeping in here? I'm sure there are many eager ears waiting," Thorin snapped—quietly. It was a great deal politer than the snarled "go away" and tossed pillow he wanted to give, but he suspected that would wake Bilbo.

"Do you deny it?" Balin whispered in his perfectly reasonable tutor's tone that said 'I'll be disappointed in you if you give the wrong answer.'

"He may not care to be consort to a dwarf king," Thorin returned, not quite meeting his cousin's eyes. "It may well be a moot discussion."

"You won't know if you never try," Balin said. "Try not to worry so much and trust in both yourself and Bilbo. And eat something, Mahal knows we all need a few good meals under our belts." He padded toward the door, sending one more studious glance around the room, and Thorin had no doubt in his mind Balin was collecting every detail of the room to relate to the others.

It was only when Balin was gone that Thorin noticed how truly still Bilbo had gone. Before he'd been prone to shifting, as one does in sleep, and his breathing was deeper. Cold dread plummeted to the pit of his stomach.

"How long have you been awake?" he asked, sounding gruffer than he'd intended.

Bilbo released a long breath and slowly wiggled onto his back. Wide brown eyes stared up at him. "Consort," he said, voice a little wheezy. He opened his mouth as if to say more but closed it again just as quickly.

Thorin looked away guiltily. Perhaps that wasn't a conversation to have had before Bilbo, no matter how he appeared to be sleeping. Yet even as his thoughts reprimanded him, he couldn't help noticing how Bilbo's belly was as invitingly soft and pale as his back, though equally marred with bruises.

A hand shot across his view, curling around his elbow. "Thorin," Bilbo said. There was a long pause as though he still didn't know what to say. " _Love_?" He sounded at a loss.

Thorin looked up, finding those shocked brown eyes still pinned on him. All he could do was nod. What could he say? He'd barely come to acknowledge it himself. He could hardly expect Bilbo to be any more interested in him than he had been the days and weeks before. The way Bilbo had looked at him last night… It had given him hope. But he had no right to expect anything from him.

"How long _have_ you been awake?" Thorin asked again.

A faint blush crept over his cheeks. Thorin was delighted to notice it spread down his neck and chest, causing a healthy pink blush, and could not stop himself from tracing his fingers lightly over Bilbo's cheek and up along one delicately pointed ear, watching as the blush deepened.

"Ah, I—that is," Bilbo cleared his throat and Thorin reluctantly pulled away. Bilbo was still watching him with wide, startled eyes. "You might say hobbits are attuned to matters of the hearth. That is to say in this particular case, since breakfast made an appearance."

Thorin couldn't help it, he laughed. "I should have known. You said hobbits have seven meals, didn't you?"

"More or less."

"Where do you put it all?" Thorin shook his head. "You're too small to eat so much."

The face Bilbo made at him was cute, though he was sure Bilbo meant for it to be annoyed. Mahal, Thorin was far gone. How had he missed it for so long?

"Love," Bilbo repeated again, as if reading his thoughts.

"Aye," Thorin acknowledged reluctantly. "I… understand if you do not reciprocate, Bilbo. I would not expect you to. It won't affect our friendship."

Bilbo shook his head. "No, no, none of that. This is." He shook his head again. "It is far too early, for starters. And I've known all of five minutes, so give me a moment to catch up." Then, after a pause. " _Consort_?"

Thorin could not bring himself to speak. He sunk back down into the bed from where he'd been propped up on his side, half-sitting and hovering over Bilbo upon Balin's arrival. His arm settled around Bilbo's waist instinctively, fingers tracing rune patterns along Bilbo's skin. It was comforting when Bilbo made no move to remove it.

They lay in silence awhile, Thorin itching to know what thoughts were going through Bilbo's head, but resisting the urge to press him. It was enough they could be together in this moment, lying side by side, pressed together, comfortable enough Bilbo wasn't protesting the lack of clothes as Thorin expected him to.

And besides that, Thorin found he still needed time to adjust to his own feelings and he'd had three days to obsess over it. It wouldn't be fair to deny Bilbo the same opportunity.

"I've liked you since you first showed up on my doorstep complaining the Shire was an unnavigable warren," Bilbo finally said. "Not—not love, and you ruined some of the effect with how utterly rude you were, but, I've always been… I've always liked you, and thought you remarkable, and it only got worse as the days wore on because it was obvious how little you thought of me, which let me tell you, is definitely a poor basis for an infatuation."

Thorin stared at Bilbo in disbelief, catching the profile of his face as Bilbo stared at the ceiling, worrying at his lower lip.

"It was nice, after the Carrock, when it seemed we might be friends. I've never thought about anything more than that. Those were risky sorts of thoughts, given our previous interactions. Romance was an unfathomable matter." Bilbo tilted to look up at him, still biting at his lip off and on, eyes shadowed and worried. "I don't want to lose your friendship, Thorin."

"You won't," Thorin said, the hoarseness of his own voice surprising him. He brought his hand up to cup Bilbo's face. "You won't, I swear it, no matter what falls between us."

Bilbo's smile was uncertain. "You sound very sure."

"I am." He shifted down so he could pull Bilbo closer to him, ignoring the way his injuries pulled along his torso. He should not have felt so pleased when Bilbo turned to curl into Thorin's chest, arm snaking over his side, but he was. Inordinately, disgustingly pleased with himself and the world on a whole. "Balin was not wrong. …I did not want to see you, before. I did not want to acknowledge that I might feel anything for you. It was easier, to pretend the opposite. I'm much like my grandfather in that way." He frowned, leaned his forehead lightly against Bilbo's own. "My people love fiercely, Bilbo, it can be a hard thing to bear, from either direction."

Bilbo actually snorted. "Why must you dwarves always be a dramatic lot? Nothing is ever straightforward." Then he leaned forward the last few inches between them and pressed a soft kiss to Thorin's mouth. "We should try, at least, shouldn't we? Balin was not wrong in that either."

"Ach, don't tell him that," Thorin groaned. "I would never hear the end of it." When Bilbo laughed Thorin boldly pressed another kiss to that soft mouth, causing the laughter to cut off into a startled squeak. But Bilbo pressed into it, and Thorin teasingly flicked his tongue against his lips, luring him into a deeper kiss.

They broke apart much later, several kisses in, when their lack of clothing was certainly developing into a detriment to propriety, or so Bilbo claimed—Thorin couldn't see any problem with the matter at hand at all.

"You never did share those inappropriate words of khuzdul you've learned," Thorin said teasingly.

Bilbo groaned and buried his face against Thorin's chest. "You weren't supposed to remember that."

Thorin smiled, a touch smugly if he was truthful. "And yet here we are. You did give your word."

 

~*~FIN~*~

**Author's Note:**

> Khuzdul (with all my thanks to The Dwarrow Scholar):  
>  _narag_ \- black (color of evil)  
>  _urmaz lavamrukhs_ \- worm-born white orc (urmaz - worm-origins, lavam - white, rukhs - orc)  
>  _sanbâh_ \- perfect (true/pure) friend  
>  _khazâdbâh_ \- Dwarf-friend/friend of all dwarves (Khazâd - dwarves, bâh - friend)  
>  _khazâd_ \- dwarves  
>  _khuzd_ \- dwarf  
>  _bâh_ \- friend  
>  _ghivasha_ \- treasure  
>  _âzyungâl_ \- lover  
>  _sanâzyung_ \- perfect (true/pure) love


End file.
